


Ineluctable

by Paeonia



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/M, peggysous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paeonia/pseuds/Paeonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel Sousa was equal to the challenge.  Or at least he had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ineluctable

**Author's Note:**

> set after episode 1x07 ("The Iron Ceiling")

Daniel Sousa was equal to the challenge. Or at least he had been.

Before… Before, he’d developed a plan, and it was a good plan, it had been working.

Mornings were easy: stretches, exercises, dress, shave, out the door.

Pick up a paper at the newsstand. Read it over the usual breakfast (toast, eggs, coffee, fruit) at the usual place. And if a stray thought floated in while he was reading the paper, it was easy to tell it, _No, not now. Not now, but later, I promise_ , and gently lead the thought to a chair to wait.

Off to the office. There, it was a bit trickier, but he’d been managing. His desk was in a good spot; when he came in, he could tell with a glance whether she was in yet or not, and if she wasn’t in yet, he was in just the right spot to be busily working as she arrived: _Good morning, Agent Sousa_ , she might say, or - better yet - _Good morning, Daniel_. And since her desk was back by the window, he didn’t have to see her every time he looked up.

And it was easy to concentrate on work and forget for a while that she was sitting behind him. He stuck to his duties and didn’t try to think of excuses to go look out the window or be in the file room at the same time as she was, or be away from his desk while she was taking the lunch orders so that she’d have to come back and talk to him - just to him. That made the little encounters through the day all the sweeter, even if it was just the swish of her skirt as she walked past him.

And when those little moments happened, he wouldn’t allow himself to think about them — not right away. _Not now_ , he’d tell the memory, even as it formed. _Not now, but later, I promise._ And he’d gently put the moment on a shelf to ponder later.

After work… sometimes, as he put his jacket on and got ready to leave, he’d catch sight of her sitting at her desk and the thought would come to him: _today?_ But with the next heartbeat he’d realize _no, not today._ Sometimes she’d look up as he was leaving and wish him good night - _no, not today,_ he’d remind himself - he’d wish her good night and hurry out, with a lift in his heart.

He’d stop off for supper at the usual place, pick up his laundry, and head back to his apartment. Still, he waited; he’d listen to the radio or read before starting the pre-bed checklist: teeth, bath, pajamas, stretches, and the list of tasks under “leg routine”. Sometimes, as he sat up in bed, saying his rosary on the black beads the chaplain had given him, the thoughts started to flutter at the back of his mind, and sometimes he’d carefully let a couple out. Like the day he’d found her in the file room — he’d offered prayers that night for her comfort and for the soul of the man he was sure she’d been crying for.

"…Amen."

Finally he turned off the light. Now it was time. This was when he finally lifted the memories, old and new, off the shelf and began to gently, tenderly flip through them. No particular order; sometimes he started with the events of the day - _"Tuna salad today?"_ \- and sometimes he flipped back to the beginning of his mental file - _"Gentlemen, our newest agent, Peggy Carter, direct from Berlin."_ Sousa had recognized her name and face from the stories in _Stars and Stripes_ about Captain America and then the Howling Commandos. The behavior of his fellow agents had angered and embarrassed him - for the love of Pete, this was Peggy Carter, Colonel Phillips’s aide! It was bad enough Dooley was wasting an agent’s skills on jobs a switchboard girl could be doing, but to hear Krzeminski making that disgusting remark - and not getting the punch in the face he should have gotten - and then to see her utter composure - _“these adolescents”_ \- he savored the way she said it so crisply, _“these adolescents”_ , and then the words he’d been carrying close to his heart - _"another thing we have in common"_ … _"We."_ He smiled to himself with the memory. _"We.”_

And yes, she was so beautiful - he loved thinking about her curls, and sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be able to touch them. He loved thinking about her smile - especially that sly, “I’ve got a secret” smile that was just the corners of her beautiful mouth - and her knowing eyes.

And she knew way more than she was letting on, he was sure of it. That’s why he’d bet against her, because she kept things to herself. Of course she knows who Joe DiMaggio is, she’d probably met him and played catch with him in Howard Stark’s back yard. She’d probably struck him out.

And then all the other things she never, ever, talked about. _”I can assure you I don’t do this often.”_ So how often was “not often”? It pained him to think of her in tears, hiding in the file room. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to offer a handkerchief - but then she might not have liked that. Instead he’d bumbled out that stupid story about his foot locker. But he’d made her laugh. That was probably his favorite memory - the way she’d dropped her gaze and laughed a little, with that beautiful little smile…

And it had been working, the plan had been working. He’d been able to manage, because yes, he _was_ sweet on her, dammit, and that was all, and he needed to be able to get through the day without bothering her or making a fool of himself, and it had been working.

And then that bastard Thompson — adolescent would be a step up for that stunt, what did he think this was, elementary school? — and then the sight that blotted out everything: his anger at Thompson, his embarrassment at walking in on Peggy, his fear that she was angry at him - everything. The sight that refused to wait demurely for the end of the day. The sight that was forcing itself into his mind on top of anything and everything. The sight of her bare shoulder, and those two little scars, and the two little matching scars in the photograph of the blonde woman at the nightclub.

It was Peggy. Peggy Carter, agent, heroine, patriot, slayer of Hydra, had put on a disguise and had been at Spider Raymond's nightclub. He wouldn’t have believed it. But he had seen it.

 

And now he couldn’t see anything else.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
